Page 20 of Fauxmance in the City

“Bailey!” Max’s deep voice startles me.

“How do you know his name?” I ask.

“Aunt Gilli’s assistant sent me the info from the rescue. Also, I think it’s on the itinerary.”

I barely skimmed the itinerary, more concerned with perfecting the dishes I’m cooking tomorrow. There’s been little else on my mind, worried I’ll mess it up royally without the reassurance of Natalie nearby.

“Bacon used to do the trick when I couldn’t find Chester. Do you have any?” Max asks, glancing into the kitchen.

“Honey.” I turn to Sam who stands in the doorway. “Do you mind getting some bacon? There might be some in the fridge.”

Sam swings his gaze between Max and me unhappily, and I bite back a smile. It’s fun to see him jealous. “I’ll go check,” he grumbles.

“So you’re a younger, hipper Martha Stewart?” Max asks, quoting a New York Times article that profiled me when I was on the rise.

“You know who Martha Stewart is?” I ask. “Sorry, I read up on amnesia before you arrived, but I’m still pretty ignorant.”

“From what my neurologist said, TBI can result in several types of amnesia.” He leans over the banister that looks over the garden.

“TBI?” I ask.

“Traumatic brain injury.”

“Oh. And what kind do you have? Do you remember?”

He looks over his shoulder and laughs, his entire face lighting up with the smile. I wave of guilt washes over me. His aunt set up this entire spectacle to exploit his trauma and bring readers to her magazine, and I hate that I’m a part of it.

“There’s retrograde amnesia and anterograde. I’ve lost my long-term memory. But I haven’t lost my procedural or semantic memory.”

I squash my eyebrows together, processing this information.

“I remember how to perform tasks like tying my shoe or riding a bike, and I remember events in history and famous people, but not events or people from my own life.”

“Oh. That’s interesting.”

Max rubs his temples with the heels of his palms.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping next to him. This close, small scars are visible at the back of his neck, and his hair is shaved at the nape, hidden under a flop of hair that’s longer.

“I get headaches sometimes. All the traveling. I’m probably dehydrated.”

“Come inside and rest in the living room. I’ll get some water.” I open the door to the kitchen. “My husband can look for Bailey.”

I don’t see Sam anywhere. His mission to find bacon either failed or he never searched in the first place. I send him a quick text to look for the dog outside once he gets the bacon.

In the living room, Max sits on the plush white couch across from the fireplace, his back ramrod straight. I go to the wet bar and retrieve a bottle of water. Max sucks it down.

“Better?” I ask.

He nods, his shoulders relaxing.

“I thought Gillian was on her way to pick you up,” I say.

“I took an earlier flight, so I caught a taxi. I phoned Aunt Gilli when I landed, but she was already in a car on her way out to the airport and stuck in mad traffic.” Max gazes out the window. The darkening sky smothers the daylight, even though it’s only four in the afternoon.

“I’m surprised she didn’t have the Good Day crew here to film your arrival,” I say, unsure if I should shut up and let him rest after his long journey or continue to keep him company. He’s awkward, but I would be too if my world was narrowed down to a month of memories, unsure of who I am and where I fit in the world.

“I’m sure they’ll film it later and pretend it’s the first time,” he grunts.

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